


Climb Up All Your Thoughts

by whalefairyfandom12



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Artist Katsuki Yuuri, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Road Trips, Sharing a Bed, Singer Victor Nikiforov, Viktuuri Big Bang 2017
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-16
Updated: 2017-07-16
Packaged: 2018-12-02 03:52:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11501214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whalefairyfandom12/pseuds/whalefairyfandom12
Summary: And maybe they only had until Barcelona and everything from now on was nothing more than borrowed time, but Yuuri would take Viktor for as long as he could have him. Maybe he couldn't steal him from the world forever, but surely he could keep his attention for a few nights more.::In which Yuuri is an artist past his prime and Viktor is a singer in the midst of his. Somehow they meet in the middle





	Climb Up All Your Thoughts

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the Viktuuri Reverse Bang! I've split this fic into two chapters due to length, but this story is complete so the final chapter should be out next week. Thank you so much to my lovely artist kibou89--her art is amazing and you should definitely check out her Tumblr. I hope you enjoy xx

 

 

**Kasimov**

 

    Yuuri was certain of two things: suitcases were not meant to be a chairs, and hitchhiking wasn't nearly as easy as the movies made it out to be.

   He’d been waiting for at least two hours and had yet to find a ride, but that wasn’t for lack of trying. Hitchhiking wasn’t his first choice of transportation, or any choice really except as a last resort. Originally one of his coworkers had offered him a ride, and they’d made it this far before her car had broken down. Yuuri had told her not to worry and that he’d make his own way from here, somehow managing to forget that the nearest town was still a good fifteen miles away.

    A black car approached and Yuuri held up his sign halfheartedly. The cardboard was starting to fall apart but the writing was still legible. The driver, a black haired man wearing sunglasses, flipped him off as he passed, honking the horn loudly.

    Yuuri sighed, lowering the sign and checking his watch. Two and a half hours of waiting and counting.

    Another three cars passed, two of the drivers on their phones and the third flashing him a disgusted look. Somehow he managed to turn even redder than he already was. Hitchhiking had been a bad idea--maybe he’d better off if he tried his luck at walking.

     There was a flash of pink from around the corner, and he looked up to see volkswagen van roll to a stop directly in front of him. Heart in his throat, Yuuri scrambled to his feet as the window rolled down, fingers crossing behind his back.

    “‘Anywhere but here?’” the driver asked.

     “Yes. If--” Yuuri paused, the rest of his words stumbling to a halt.

    There was nothing subtle about the van or the man driving it; the vehicle was an almost offensive shade of pink and the driver had bright blue eyes and completely silver hair, at odds with how young he looked. Perhaps the worst part, though, was that Yuuri recognized him immediately.

    “That isn’t very specific.”

    It wasn’t a question, but Yuuri answered anyway. “I’m not going anywhere specific. Just…” he trailed off, gesturing to his surroundings.

    “Anywhere but here.” There was a pause, and the van shifted into park. He grabbed his suitcase with one hand, still clutching the sign with the other. The passenger door popped open, the man poking his head out with a smile. “I’m Viktor.”

    “Yuuri.”

    “It’s nice to meet you, Yuuri. Can I offer you a ride?”

    Maybe he should’ve, but Yuuri didn’t think twice before getting in the van. He balanced his suitcase on his lap, throwing the sign on the ground. “Thank you,”

    Viktor smiled again, though it didn’t seem to reach his eyes. “I’m heading to Barcelona,” he said. “But I’m taking the long way.”

    Yuuri shrugged. He’d meant it when he’d written _Anywhere but here_. Thankfully he still had his passport, and Spain was as good a place as any. “Okay.”

 

* * *

  

**via P105 to Moscow**

 

    The first two hours passed in silence. Viktor’s eyes kept darting to the radio dials, and a few times his hand started to drift towards the controls before jerking away. Yuuri chewed on his bottom lip, tucking his hands under his thighs anxiously. The roads bumped by, each jerk setting Yuuri more on edge. He couldn’t help but wonder what Viktor was thinking, the tapping of his fingers and curve of his mouth as mysterious as his silence.

    He watched Viktor reach for the dial and falter again, steeling himself. “You can turn it on if you want. I don't mind.”

    Viktor shrugged. “The radio is pretty staticky in this area, I usually use my phone. Do you listen to any music?”

     “A little. You?”

     He smiled. “Just a bit. I'm a musician.” Yuuri had to stop himself from saying _I know_ , settling for a nod instead. “Favorite song?”

    Yuuri faltered. “Uh...I don’t have one?” That wasn’t true, but it was one Viktor had written and he didn’t want to get kicked out of the van for revealing the extent of his _interest_.

   “A song you like, then. Or one that reminds you of road trips.”

   “There was this one song I heard living in America,” he began tentatively. “Phichit said it was the perfect road trip song.”

    “You lived in America?”

    “I went to university there.”

    “That explains why your english is so good. You barely have an accent.” Viktor’s focus was locked on the road. “Who’s Phichit? Your boyfriend?”

    Yuuri choked. It was an innocent enough question, but the thought of dating Phichit was like dating Mari. “I don’t--no!”

    Viktor looked remarkably unphased given Yuuri’s vehement reply. “Okay, so not Phichit. Have you had any previous lovers?”

    He blushed, ducking further in his seat. “N-No comment,” he stammered.

    “Let me tell you about _my_ first lover,” Viktor began brightly. “I was fourteen, and he--”

    “Stop!” Yuuri cringed, holding up both his hands in a plea for mercy. “I don’t want to know.”

    Viktor shrugged. “Alright then.”

    In the ensuing silence he reached for the radio, turning it on. The station was just as static as he’d said it would be.

 

* * *

 

**Moscow**

 

Moscow was big.

    Yuuri had been to big cities before--hell, he’d lived in Detroit, but Moscow was on a completely different scale to anywhere he’d been before. He found himself thankful that he was with Viktor; his vocabulary in Russian was that of a four year old, and though he could fumble his way through a conversation to be stranded in a big city where he couldn’t communicate in the local language was a terrifying prospect.

    Any of the employees Yuuri interacted with spoke English, and many of the workers and interns were immigrants themselves. He'd been trying to learn Russian ever since he’d moved there, but languages were not his strong suit.

    Viktor pulled the van into park in front of a cathedral that seemed bigger than the whole of Hasetsu. Yuuri tried not to look too much the role of gawking tourist as he glanced around, soaking in all of the architecture eagerly. The high dome of the cathedral towered overhead, people walking by chattering away with a fluency he barely had in Japanese.

    Viktor looked completely at home, unbuckling his seatbelt and leaning back. “Here we are!” he said cheerfully, patting the steering wheel affectionately. “I knew we’d make it in the end.”

    “How did you end up with a Volkswagen?” Yuuri asked curiously. He was glad, it meant space wasn't going to be an issue, but it was an interesting choice of car especially given the color.

    “Yakov, my manager, got one years ago when they first came out. He passed it on to me to use for my tour.” Viktor paused. “Well, unofficial tour.”

    “And the color?”

    “I painted it myself.”

    Yuuri shook his head, smiling. Somehow, that didn’t surprise him in the slightest. “I like it. It’s very distinctive.”

   “That’s probably a good thing. I’m a bit of an airhead, at least this way it’ll be hard to lose.”

    “Do you come to Moscow often?”

    “I used to more. My cousin used to live here.”

    “Your cousin?”

    Viktor hesitated, running a hand through his hair. “He’s also named Yuri, but he lives in London now.” He unbuckled his seatbelt, reaching for his guitar. “I think I'll walk up the road a bit, but I’ll set up somewhere around here. You're welcome to get off now or keep going.”

    “I have to make a call, but I don't think it's a good idea to stop here. My Russian isn't very good.”

    Viktor smiled. “And you still have to play me Phichit’s song,” he said lightly. “I’ll call when I'm wrapping up.”

    Yuuri nodded, clutching his phone and rolling down the window. Viktor climbed out of the van, instrument in hand and waved goodbye. Yuuri watched him leave, silver hair easily distinguishable amongst the crowd until he turned a corner and disappeared. He exhaled slowly, turning on his phone and dialing Phichit’s number.

    His friend answered on the second ring. “Hello?”

    Yuuri tried for a smile before remembering Phichit couldn't see him anyway. “Hi.”

    “Yuuri! How's it going?”

    “Okay. Sorry to bother you.”

    “You're not bothering me, I told you to call more often. What’s up?”

    “Good.” Yuuri coughed, scratching the back of his neck. “Everything’s good.”

   “How did your presentation go?”

    The point of the call was to tell Phichit what had happened and ask for his help, but Yuuri had always been bad at admitting defeat. “Fine.”

    “So it got approved?”

    He cringed. Now or never. “No. I don't work there anymore and I couldn't afford the apartment.”

    Phichit’s tone was still largely unconcerned, though he had a feeling it wouldn't remain that way for long. “So where are you now?”

    “Russia.”

    “Specifically.”

    “With Viktor Nikiforov.”

     There was the sound of something shattering, Phichit mumbling furiously in Thai. “You're with Viktor Nikiforov?” he repeated incredulously.

    “He’s giving me a ride,” Yuuri said vaguely.

    “How did you meet?”

    “I was hitchhiking and he picked me up.” He’d hoped that if he casually dropped meeting Viktor Nikiforov that would distract from the _how_ , but he should’ve known better.

    “You were hitchhiking? What were you thinking? Are you safe?”

    “I’m safe,” Yuuri affirmed. He hoped he was, anyway. “Sara gave me a ride but the car broke down and we parted ways. I wasn’t close to a bus station so I had to ask for a ride.”

    “Where are you headed?”

    “Actually, I was wondering if I could come stay with you? Just for a few weeks,” he added. “I wouldn't be there long.”

    Phichit sighed, and Yuuri’s heart sank through the floor. “I’m really sorry Yuuri, I’m back in Bangkok right now. But of _course_ you’re welcome to come stay with me.”

    “I'll see.” They both knew he wouldn't, but Phichit was kind enough not to say so.

    “What about going home?” The question was hesitant, asked in full awareness of the tension it would cause. “Not forever, but until you find another job.”

   “I'm not going home, not yet.” There were very few things Yuuri was sure of, but this was one. “Viktor said I could stay with him until Barcelona.”

    “And you trust him?”

    Yuuri’s gaze fell to the driver’s side. Someone had stuck a tiger sticker to the steering wheel, the animal crouched low to the ground. He had a feeling it was supposed to be fierce, but it looked cute more than anything else. From what he knew of Yakov Feltsman, it didn't look like something that would’ve been added pre Viktor.

    “Yuuri?”

    Yuuri dropped his eyes to the floor. “I have to go, Viktor’s waiting. I'll call you at the next stop.” He hung up before Phichit could reply.

 

::

 

    For the exterior of the van to be so bright the interior was very beige; ceiling and seats blending together into something nondescript. It was a nice change from the stimulation of this afternoon; Yuuri had spent most of the day wandering the same narrow perimeter near Viktor’s stage. Partly because hearing his favorite musician live was a new experience and partly because any further and he would've gotten lost.

    “Are you sure you don't want to take the bed?” Yuuri asked again. In a gesture of polite hospitality, Viktor had opted to sleep in the driver's seat and given him the makeshift bed.

     “I told you you could have it,” the man said lightly. “And I meant it. I'll be fine here.”

     If this was a movie and Yuuri weren’t so awkward he would ask Viktor if he wanted to share. But it wasn't and he was, so he settled for a shrug and pulled the blanket up further. “Thank you.”

    “What do you do for work?” Viktor asked.

    He winced. “I’m unemployed at the moment but I used to be a concept artist.”

    “Did you like it?”

    “Yes.”

    Viktor sounded wistful. “You were happy?”

    Yuuri paused. It had been his childhood dream to be an artist, and until getting fired he had been making that a reality. He _should’ve_ been happy, but he wasn't. “Sometimes,” he said finally.

    “Only sometimes?” He could hear Viktor shift in the front seat, head turning to look at him in the growing dark.

    In some ways Yuuri had been happier as a broke college student. He was still broke, but at least then he'd been living with Phichit. Yuuri had always been antisocial, but Phichit was the opposite and had dragged Yuuri on various ‘character building’ adventures. Without his friend’s urging, Yuuri had retreated into what Phichit called his ‘hermit shell.’ Coupled with Vicchan’s death, his head being a mess, and a lack of friends, yeah, Yuuri would say he was a little unhappy.

    “Yuuri?”

    “Are you?” he asked instead.

    “Why wouldn’t I be?” Yuuri couldn’t quite make out Viktor’s expression, but he had a feeling he was giving one of his signature grins. It seemed even less genuine in person. “I’m a singer and I have a hot pink van.”

    Yuuri buried his smile in his pillow. “Can’t forget the van,” he agreed. “Sleep tight.”

    A few moments of silence, then “You know, we could always _share_ the bed,” Viktor suggested.

    Yuuri bolted upright with a squeaking sound alarmingly akin to a mouse. “What!”

    “I was just kidding,” the man said, flopping back onto his seat. “But don’t you think if we’re going to be traveling together we should get to know each other?”

    A million possible retorts flew through his head, ranging from _fuck no_ to _fuck yes,_ and eventually he settled on a neutral “Goodnight Viktor.”

     The van was uncomfortably quiet after that, and it was a long few hours until he finally fell asleep.

 

* * *

 

**via M1 to Minsk**

 

   “Can I ask why you're going to Barcelona?”

    Yuuri paused, turning off his phone and letting it fall into his lap. “I’ve never been,” he said truthfully. “What about you?”

    “I haven't either, but Chris went to Barcelona a few years ago and he loved it. And Yakov thought it would be a good way to gain publicity.”

   “Are you busking the entire way or do you have any places booked?”

    Viktor shrugged. “Yakov will tell me if I'm playing somewhere. He handles the business side of things.” His fingers drummed against the wheel, glancing in Yuuri’s direction. “So what’s this song you keep talking about?”

    Yuuri fumbled for his phone, finding his music and pressing play. “Don’t get too excited,” he warned, rubbing his finger over the back of his case. Sharing music with his favorite singer was a terrifying prospect, nevermind that it was Phichit’s song first.

   The familiar notes of _Send Me On My Way_ blasted through the car, Viktor’s drumming falling into the beat of the song. Despite his nerves, Yuuri found himself tapping along with his foot.

   “Isn't this the song from that movie?” Viktor asked, nose wrinkling adorably. “The one where the animals chase the acorn?”

   Yuuri laughed. “Do you mean _Ice Age?_ ”

   Viktor snapped his fingers. “That.”

   “I think so. I haven’t seen it in a long time, though.”

   “I like it. It’s very catchy.” Viktor hummed along to the melody, smile gracing his features. “I can see why it’s good road trip music.”

    “What’s your favorite song?” Yuuri asked. Predictably, the only question Viktor was asked more was _are you single?_ but the singer always had a different answer each time.

   “I like _Goodbye Stranger_.”

    “I don’t think I’ve heard it before.”

    Viktor shrugged. “It’s an older song, but I like the lyrics. That’s part of why I wanted to become a singer. I like being able to tell stories and make music at the same time.”

     _Send Me On My Way_ came to a close, _Stammi Vicino_ coming on before Yuuri could grab his phone in time. Viktor’s voice filled the van, crooning about _staying close and never leaving me._ _Stammi Vicino_ was an opera Viktor had performed in last year; an out of character move given his usual genre, but per usual he’d wracked in even more accolades for his performance. Yuuri cringed, burying his face in his hands. “That wasn’t--I didn’t…”

    “Aw Yuuri,” Viktor cooed. “You do like my music!”

     Yuuri wondered how many times someone could blush before exploding. At this rate death would be welcome. At least he hadn’t mentioned the hundreds of sketchbooks he’d filled with Viktor’s likeness. “It’s not...I don’t!”

    Viktor cleared his throat dramatically, tapping the steering wheel like a conductor. “ _Orsu' finisco presto questo calice di vino, e inizio a prepararmi. Adesso fa' silenzio_ ,” he sang, complete with Sergio’s exaggerated hand gestures. “ _Questa storia che senso non ha_ ,” he paused, looking at Yuuri expectantly. “Come on.”

     Once Yuuri had fancied himself a singer, but he’d also been twelve. Before he’d really decided to pursue art he’d taken music lessons. Yuuko had introduced him to Viktor’s music at practice one day, and they’d spent their time picking out the chords on the piano and singing along in questionably on key voices. Though Yuuko had moved on to skating and Yuuri to art, their minor (major) interest (obsession) had yet to change.

    Needless to say, there was a reason Yuuri was an artist instead of a singer, and the idea of even humming along with _Viktor Nikiforov_ was enough to make him wonder how far the drop would be from the car to the ground.

     “I don't sing,” he mumbled, pulling his sweatshirt over his nose.

    “Everyone sings.”

    “Not _well_.”

    Viktor’s nose crinkled, mirroring the mirth in his eyes. “I don’t think you can do anything horribly, Yuuri.” Yuuri gave him a look. “Most things,” he amended.

    “I think I'll leave the singing to you,” Yuuri said. While it was flattering that Viktor thought him capable enough to reenact carpool karaoke, he couldn't help but wonder how many more times he'd have to disappoint him before they reached Barcelona.

 

* * *

 

**Minsk**

 

    “What are you drawing?”

    Yuuri flinched at the sudden sound, snapping his sketchbook shut instinctively. There was no in between with Viktor, either the man grandly announced his entrance or he was so quiet Yuuri seriously considered tying a bell around his neck. “Nothing.”

    Viktor pouted, sliding closer. “I won’t reveal your secrets.”

    “There aren’t any secrets worth revealing. I’m not very good anyway.”

    “I saw some of your artwork online,” Viktor dropped causally.

    Yuuri froze. “What? When?”

    “Google. You’re good.” The statement was matter of fact, no room left for argument. Yuuri’s self-deprecation found some anyway.

    “I’m not, but thank you.”

    Viktor frowned. “That’s not true. I don’t know much about art, but the way you paint reminds me of music. It’s like seeing a symphony.”

    Yuuri flushed, sinking lower behind his sweatshirt. “I really don’t--”

    “You should have more confidence. You're very talented.”

    “You’re just saying that.” For all his ridiculousness, Yuuri could tell that Viktor was kind. And kind people didn't tell others they sucked--even if they did.

    “I'm not.” Viktor sat on the grass beside him, leaning forwards expectantly. “What are you working on?”

    Yuuri flipped it open to the most recent page, a quick doodle of Vicchan playing by the tree to his left. They'd been in Minsk for a few hours, electing to sit in Victory Park before Viktor resumed work. It was the sort of place he and Vicchan would've visited together; plenty of trails through the nearby woods but quiet spaces by the river to sit and watch.

   “I have a poodle too,” Viktor said. His finger traced Vicchan’s face, wistful. “Makkachin. I couldn't bring her with me but I miss her. How long have you had your dog?”

   “Eleven years.” Yuuri swallowed, fingers curling around his pencil. “He um...he passed away last month.” To his horror he found his eyes beginning to burn.

    “I’m sorry.”

    “He was hit by a car.” Yuuri pushed up his glasses, fixing his eyes on the tuft of grass by his feet. “I haven't been home in five years. I couldn't--wasn't,” he inhaled shakily “Mari was there, but I couldn't even visit.”

    He wasn't sure why he was rambling about this to _Viktor_ of all people. He hadn't even told Phichit, and Viktor undoubtedly had more important things to be thinking about. He wondered how pathetic he sounded--breaking down about his dead dog that to someone he'd only known for a few days.

   Viktor was quiet. “I'm sure he understood. I worry about Makkachin whenever I have to leave. It’s part of the reason why I dislike taking trips so much.”

    “But you come home.”

    “And you don't?”

    “I can't. Not yet.” It was the same answer he'd given Phichit, but now it felt even weaker.

    “Hmm.” Viktor nudged Yuuri with his shoulder, quirking an eyebrow. “I don't know if you saw any of the gossip but I had a ‘tragic childhood’ and I wrote most of my early music about it.”

    Yuuri’s brow furrowed. He'd seen some of the interviews but from everything else he'd read he'd thought it was nothing more than rumors. “I thought that was fake.”

    “It was. Mostly anyway. My parents divorced and devoted their time to work and remarrying. It felt like there was always something more important than whatever I wanted to ask, but we were fairly wealthy and I know they cared about me.” Viktor sighed, running a hand through his fringe. “When I first started to pursue music I didn't want to tell them. I thought I needed to have something impressive to show to even get their attention. But I was wrong. Have you ever felt like that?”

    “When I was in Detroit there was this girl who was really pushy. One of my friends had an accident and she came to the waiting room with me. I was really worried, and she tried to give me a hug but I pushed her away.”

    “Wow. Why would you do that?” There was nothing judgemental in Viktor’s tone, and maybe that’s why Yuuri felt like it was safe to keep speaking.

    “It felt like she thought I was weak or something. I realized that none of my family has ever made me feel that way.”

    “You’re not weak Yuuri. No one who knows you would ever think that either.”

    Something warm filled his chest, spreading to his face by way of a blush. They were silent for a moment, a man passing in front of them speaking furiously into his phone. A little girl raced by alongside a black labrador, curls flying behind her.

    Yuuri startled at Viktor’s movement, the other man climbing to his feet gracefully. He offered his hand, and without hesitating he grabbed it. Wherever he was, Viktor always met him halfway.

 

::

 

     “What are you working on?” Yuuri asked, echoing Viktor’s question from earlier. The singer was sitting on the roof of the van, guitar in hand and a frown on his face.

      “Practicing for tomorrow. I’m deciding on my setlist.” For some reason that explanation didn’t quite ring true, but he didn’t question it. “Come on up!” He moved further off to the side, Yuuri hoisting himself up.

     “There’s a place called the Beetlejuice Cafe,” Yuuri said. “They have a small menu, but the atmosphere looks nice.”

    “That’s good with me.” Viktor’s phone vibrated in his pocket, the sound making Yuuri jump. He watched as Viktor retrieved it and powered it on, an image of a poodle on his lockscreen.

    “Is that Makkachin?” he asked.

     “Yes! Do you want to see a better picture?” Yuuri nodded, and with the enthusiasm of a pet owner whose dog was their child, Viktor opened his camera roll. He selected the first folder, with over a thousand images of utter cuteness. Yuuri, who had something very similar on his phone (albeit dedicated to Vicchan) was positive that Viktor was even better in person, despite his posters not snoring. “This is my favorite photo.” A young Viktor was grinning at the camera, arm thrown around a barking Makkachin.

      “It’s adorable. She’s almost as cute as Vicchan.”

      “Impossible. Makkachin is the peak of cuteness.” Viktor crossed his arms in mock offense. “You’ll have to show me a picture of Vicchan then.”

      Yuuri held his phone out a moment later. Like Viktor’s photo, it was of ten year old him and his then puppy. “This was the day I first got him.”

      There was a pause, and he swore the singer melted. “That is _adorable_. Can you send that to me?”

      He laughed. “Sure? I can if you really want.”

      “He’s almost as cute as you,” Viktor said, zooming in on past Yuuri’s face.

      Yuuri choked on his own spit.

 

 

* * *

 

**a gas station**

 

    Viktor was back in the van by the time Yuuri finished. His head was bent over his phone, eyes narrowed in focus.

   Yuuri rapped gently on the window to get his attention. “I can drive for a bit.”

    “Are you sure?”

    He nodded. “And you can finish your lunch.”

    Viktor slid into the passenger seat, Yuuri handing him his coffee and climbing into the driver's seat. Viktor had pushed the seat as far back as it could go, Yuuri’s feet stretching uselessly for the pedals.

    “You're so tall,” he grumbled, pulling it forwards to a much more reasonable distance.

    “No, I think you’re just short.”

    “Thanks.”

     Viktor slipped his phone into his pocket, looking at him expectantly.  “Where to?”

    Yuuri pulled the van into reverse, glancing at the GPS. He lowered his voice an octave, aiming for an announcer. “Next stop, Bialystok.”

 

* * *

 

**Bialystok**

 

    It was raining for the first time, loud enough to break down the roof of the van. Yuuri rolled over with a groan, pulling the pillow further over his ears. The driver side door popped open, a sopping Viktor slamming it behind him. He looked remarkably cheerful given the hour and the weather.

   “Good morning Yuuri!”

   “Hmph.” He cracked open an eye suspiciously. “What time is it?”

   “Half past twelve.” Fine, maybe not so early after all. “Coffee?”

    Yuuri reached for his glasses, stifling a yawn and accepting it gratefully. “Thank you. Where are you playing today?”

    “Kosciuszko Market, but I think I’ll wait until the rain clears.”

    Viktor was hanging over the back of the driver’s seat, twisted to look at Yuuri in a position that couldn’t be comfortable. Yuuri cleared his throat, rubbing the back of his neck. “There’s plenty of space back here,” he offered.

    Viktor’s expression immediately brightened. “Great!” He started to climb the seat, water droplets flying everywhere.

    Yuuri cringed. “Wait! Take off your coat first!”

    Viktor shrugged off the offending clothing before collapsing on top of Yuuri’s stomach. “You make a nice pillow.”

    “Thank you?” Viktor looked a little ridiculous, his torso seemed comfortable enough but the lower half of his body was squeezed into the corner. “You can sit up here if you want.”

    “But then I can't use my Yuuri pillow,” he said into his shirt. It didn't muffle his words well enough. For some reason having the words ‘my’ and ‘Yuuri’ in that precise order was doing funny things to his chest.

    “Is that why you haven't kicked me out yet?”

    “Maybe. What do you do while I'm playing?”

    “I listen mostly.” Yuuri bit his lip. “I like hearing you, and I think I might get lost if I tried to go anywhere else.”

     Viktor laughed. “Fear of getting lost isn't exactly why I want people to listen to my music, but I'll take it.”

    “I like your music for other reasons too!” Yuuri protested.

    “Why?”

     He rolled his eyes. “Surely there are plenty of articles about why it's so good.”

     Viktor shrugged. “But none of them are why _you_ think it's good.”

     “I like your voice, it always sounds like you're...um.” Yuuri groaned, burying his face in his hands. And he’d thought Mari overhearing him and Yuuko rambling about Viktor was embarrassing. “Like the words are part of you somehow. You never fail to surprise me, and whatever genre you try you always surpass my wildest expectations.”

     “What's your favorite song of mine?”

    “...All of them?”

    Viktor’s laugh deserved its own album, titled _sounds that make people feel in danger of melting._ This was track seven, _fond._ “You flatter me.”

     “Not anymore than you me. What's your favorite song?”

     “I don't have one. I can't listen to recordings of myself singing.”

    “Why not?”

    A rueful smile. “Apparently I'm ‘too critical.’ Yakov banned it.”

    On some level Yuuri understood. He couldn't look back at art from certain points of his life, because it was terrible and because there were emotions he would rather not delve into again. He never would've expected _Viktor Nikiforov_ to feel that way, but in a strange way it was reassuring to know that no matter how talented someone was they could still struggle with the same self-doubt.

    “For what it's worth,” Yuuri said quietly. “I think your music’s great.”

    

    (If Viktor’s laugh was an album, his grin was more than bright enough to be the cover.)

 

::

 

    The van was quiet, save for the sounds of Viktor tossing and turning. Despite the man’s arguments to the contrary, there was no way sleeping mostly upright could be comfortable. Yuuri shifted in his bed, arm flopping to the side. Even sprawled out there was still plenty of room, and he felt a twinge of guilt that Viktor’s bed was so cramped.

    “Viktor?” Yuuri whispered.

    “Yes?”

    “There’s still room here.” He cleared his throat awkwardly. “If you want.”

    There was a moment of hesitation, and then Viktor was climbing under the covers. Though he was trying to stay on his side of the bed, his back was pressed against Yuuri’s, strangely reassuring as they fell asleep.

 

* * *

  

**Wroclaw**

 

     Wroclaw was bright colors and overhangs. While both Bialystok and Wroclaw were in the same country, their aesthetics felt very different. Despite the people crowding the streets the design of the roads still felt very open. They passed a row of buildings each one a different pastel. The colors were muted slightly, but still bright enough to catch the eye and make the whole street look cheerful.

    “Which one would you live in?” Yuuri asked.

    “The green one. You?”

    “Yellow.” He followed Viktor across the street, their destination directly ahead. _Papa Bar_ was written in glowing letters, the dimmer lighting accenting the red of the walls and chair cushions. He held his sketchbook close to his chest, as if it could shield him from the rest of the world. “How did you hear about this place again?”

     “Chris recommended it,” Viktor said wryly. “Of course. He said they had the best cocktails.” His hand brushed against Yuuri’s back, barely there but close enough to ground him. Yuuri liked bars well enough, but him getting drunk was a bad idea for all parties involved and sometimes crowded spaces made his anxiety spike. He took a seat at the table to his right, Viktor sitting across from him.

    “You look nice,” Viktor said. “The shirt was a nice choice.”

    Yuuri blushed, adjusting it self consciously. “You do too,” he offered. It struck him that to an outsider it looked like they were on a date. He wasn’t sure why that didn’t bother him more. “What did Chris recommend?”

    “Summer breeze, cosmopolitan, negroni, and the sake sour-tini.”

    Unsurprisingly Yuuri’s palate wasn’t much more sophisticated than a margarita. When you were basically broke your liquor came cheap. As if she could sense his distress, the waitress approached their table, waiting expectantly.

    “I’ll have the summer breeze,” Viktor said.

    “I’ll have the uh…” Yuuri squinted at the menu, finger landing at random. “The cosmopolitan.”

    “I like your decision making process,” Viktor said, smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “It’s very scientific.”

    “Almost as scientific as how you assign your hours.”

    Viktor gasped, pressing a hand over his heart. “I’ll have you know I check in with Yakov every hour.”

    “Did you tell him you only played for an hour today?”

    “Uh.” He  flashed his heart shaped grin. “What’s your favorite city been so far?”

    Viktor seened to be under the impression that his heart shaped grin would get him out of any situation, and Viktor was right. “Minsk. You?”

    “Me too.”

    “I have something for you.” Yuuri opened his sketchbook to the most recent page, flipping it around and pushing it towards Viktor. “What do you think?” Yuuri tapped his fingers against the table nervously. “I know it's not perfect and I haven't fixed the shading yet but--”

    “I love it.” Viktor’s smile was so bright it hurt to look at it. “It’s perfect. Makkachin looks like she’s about to run off the page.” Yuuri had drawn he and Viktor sitting on the ground, Makkachin and Vicchan playing in the grass beside them. It was really just a sketch so far, but from the grin on Viktor’s face it looked like he’d given him the Mona Lisa.

    Yuuri ducked his head, fighting back a smile. “I’ll finish it tomorrow. I know it’s not the same thing, but you said you were missing Makkachin so I thought it would help at least a little”

    “It does.” He startled at Viktor’s touch, grabbing his hand and brushing it against his lips in a kiss. If he hadn’t been red before, he definitely was now. Out of all the ways he’d thought he might die, spontaneous combustion from exposure to Viktor Nikiforov was seeming more and more likely by the hour.

 

::

 

    A quiet whisper, barely audible. “Yuuri?”

    “Yes?”

    “Are you still awake?”

    “No I'm just pretending.”

    Viktor rolled over, forehead bumping against Yuuri’s. “Thank you for the drawing.”

    Yuuri was relieved Viktor liked it so much, but he wasn't sure why he kept bringing it up. “You’re welcome.”

    “That's the best present I've ever gotten.”

    He couldn't help but think that Viktor must not have gotten a lot of gifts if a shitty drawing was his favorite. “I'm glad you like it.” It was dark enough that he couldn’t quite make out Viktor’s features, and there was an irrational part of him that was afraid this would all disappear. He reached for Viktor’s hand, giving the other man ample time to reject the touch. If anything Viktor seemed to want more, his free hand carding through Yuuri’s hair.

    “Did I ever tell you the real reason why for my road trip?”

    “You said it was for publicity.”

    “I’ve been working on my new album. Or trying to, anyway. I’ve had a block, and Yakov thought as an added bonus to the publicity seeing something different might help.”

    “Has it?”

    Viktor made a noise in the back of his throat. “Less _something_ and more someone I think.”

    “Who-- _oh._ ” Yuuri was thankful Viktor couldn’t see his blush, although he was hot enough he could probably feel it.

    “ _Oh_ ,” Viktor repeated, smiling lightly. He kissed Yuuri’s forehead, warm against his skin. Yuuri shivered, instinctively moving closer when he tried to pull away.

     “Viktor,” Yuuri whispered. He wasn’t sure why, but he was afraid to be any louder. The _something_ was back, and it seemed like there was a chance that if he was too loud it might shatter.

     “Yuuri,” Viktor whispered back, mouth shaping his name like it was his favorite word. Dazedly, Yuuri wondered what his lips would feel like kissing somewhere other than his hand or his head. His hand fisted in the front of Viktor’s shirt, and then he wasn’t wondering anymore.

    Their first kiss was short, a careful brush that was somehow still enough to make Yuuri feel like he could float. Viktor’s lips weren’t as soft as he’d fantasized, but he now he couldn’t fathom how how he could’ve imagined anything but this. Their second was longer, quiet gasps and soft moans between bitten lips and and the feeling of _closer_. Yuuri’s eyes fluttered shut, Viktor cradling the base of his neck like he was something precious.

    And maybe they only had until Barcelona and everything from now on was nothing more than borrowed time, but Yuuri would take Viktor for as long as he could have him. Maybe he couldn't steal him from the world forever, but surely he could keep his attention for a few nights more.


End file.
